


sanha's song

by softsocky



Series: rockstar rocky au [2]
Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: M/M, but there's a happy ending, i wrote this when i was particularly emo thats why its like this, nurse sanha, rockstar rocky, short & not that sweet, this is angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 01:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13447719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsocky/pseuds/softsocky
Summary: The same night Rocky left him, Sanha lost his favourite sweater.





	sanha's song

**Author's Note:**

> dont kill me ok. also, you'll probably need to read part 1 for this to make sense. dw. part one is fluffy and better than this. 
> 
> unedited and rushed btw.

When Sanha was eight years old, he broke his ankle ice-skating. When he was thirteen, he broke three fingers on his right hand, and a few weeks after that, he had to have his tonsils removed. When he was seventeen, he had his appendix cut out in the same week as his exams. He drank a little too much on his eighteenth birthday and ended up in hospital with alcohol positioning, and had broken his ankle all over again. But it was on his twenty-fifth birthday that Rocky broke his heart.

 

The same night Rocky left him, Sanha lost his favourite sweater.

It was a delicate pink and made from the softest cashmere, and Rocky had bought it for him all those years ago when they were first going out. From the moment his boyfriend had given it to him, Sanha had been inseparable from it. He wore it to every outing which deemed it acceptable, and sometimes, even to those which didn’t; he wore it to and from work, overtop his pyjamas, to Rocky’s gigs, even. He wore it _everywhere_ , and aside from Rocky himself, it was Sanha’s most prized possession.

But then Rocky got on a plane to America, and Sanha couldn’t find the sweater anymore.

Given its age and it’s use, the sweater had definitely seen better days – the seams were starting to unravel, and parts of the cashmere were beginning to become rather threadbare, though Sanha loved it all the same. He loved it so much, in fact, that he still had it professionally dry-cleaned to avoid any further snagging or holes, and as he stands in their far-too empty apartment now, he wonders if he’s left it there.

But no, he _hadn’t_. Because he had worn it just yesterday, so it had to be somewhere in the apartment – unless he had left it somewhere on one of their outings. This, though, was extremely unlikely, considering Sanha guarded it more than he guarded _himself._

With Rocky on his first world tour, their apartment felt much emptier. The vast open space that had once been what pushed the couple to buy it in the first place, now seemed to suffocate him. The high ceilings and white walls still seemed dull and caging, no matter the number of photographs he hung on them.

Standing there, right in the centre of the room, Sanha didn’t see the appeal. He was still feeling remarkably low, because sending Rocky off at the airport, knowing Sanha wouldn’t see him for nearly six months, was one the hardest things he had ever had to do. Knowing Rocky would miss Christmas, would miss his birthday, would miss Sanha’s, too, and their anniversary – it seemed like Rocky was leaving him for good. Sanha felt both hollow and overflowing, though he wasn’t quite with that, but he knew that he needed that damn sweater.

Because while Rocky left him, taking their memories with him, Sanha knew that the sweater could remind him of them. But the sweater was nowhere to be found, no matter how hard he looked, and while the nagging part of Sanha’s brain told him that it would turn up eventually, he wasn’t quite so sure.

 

Sanha was sat in the staff lunch room at the hospital. The cup of tea he had made sits untouched beside him, the liquid well and truly gone cold. The air-conditioning overhead was turned up too high, and while MJ sat opposite him, borderline shivering, Sanha felt overheated and feverish. He had contemplated going home, because he was av _nurse_ , and he shouldn’t be around patients if he’s feeling sick whatsoever. But it wasn’t that kind of sick.

It was a feeling he had grown accustomed to in the past while, since Rocky’s been gone. He’s been away a little over a month now, five months left to go on his world adventure – the adventure he’s spending without Sanha – and it’s been the most exhaustive month of his life.

The hospital is always busier this time of year – post-Christmas, just a few days to the New Year. With higher rates of alcohol consumption, and more and more young people endeavouring on crazy antics, and an influx in tourism, it’s understandable that they have Sanha working split shifts every second day. This, combined with his general inability to sleep – the few hours he does get, spent on the couch in the depressingly suffocating lounge room – and lack of appetite, Sanha has never felt more _drained._

More so mentally, though, because the strain of not being able to confide in his boyfriend physically is one the biggest challenges he’s come to face. It’s not that they don’t speak – they _do_ , it’s just time zones make it difficult, and Rocky’s unbelievably busy schedule doesn’t match up well with Sanha’s own, so communication is limited to a small handful of delayed text messages, and very brief phone calls which usually last a total of two minutes before one of them has to go.

Sanha isn’t _mad_ at Rocky – he isn’t, truly. He’s just upset at the entire prospect of what’s happening, because while he’s so incredibly proud of what his boyfriend and his band has achieved over the years, starting from this underground band and progressively getting more and more attention over the years they dated, it’s almost unbearable to see how well he’s doing _without_ Sanha. Sanha watches as many of their interviews they can, can’t help smiling fondly at his boyfriend on his laptop screen or on his phone, can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling, when the pretty interviewers touch his arm, or laugh right along with him. Sanha feels like he needs Rocky more than Rocky needs him, because Rocky has this huge, celebrity life now, and while Sanha is sometimes followed from the outside of the hospital to his car by photographers and interviewers desperate for information about the rock star, he’s more or less an accessory to his life. He feels like a nearly out-of-season handbag that desperately needs replacing already, because the zips broken, or something, and it’s more annoying to keep around than to actual use it.

Rocky called set aside time on Christmas Day to have an hour-long video call with Sanha, which ended with both of them in tears, reminded Sanha of how much he missed him, though Sanha’s isn’t sure he had actually ever even forgotten in the first place.

MJ is biting his lip as he watches him read the article on his phone. Sanha’s eyes are stinging, and he knows that sooner or later, he’s not going to be able to hold back his tears any longer. Sanha knew that Rocky didn’t have to tell him everything; knew that secrets weren’t a thing they kept, but that sometimes things did fly over their heads. They were both victims of it, and both committed the cry far more than one. But this wasn’t something one just forgets to mention.

Sanha’s heart lurches in his chest, his hand coming up to try stop the choked-up sob from slipping between his teeth. There’s no use though, because it rips out of him anyway, and his phone drops to the table with a clatter. His shoulders shake, and MJ’s there suddenly, holding them still as he sags into his best friends embrace. That should be Rocky. It used to be Rocky. It used to be his boyfriend who would support him when things got bad, when things broke his heart like this; but this time around, it was his boyfriend who had hurt him. Even if it _were_ unintentional, even if it _had_ well and truly slipped Rocky’s mind, how on earth was Sanha supposed to believe it?

He pushes out of MJ’s grasp, feeling too close, too overheated, too sickly in the absence of the man he loved, and runs to the toilet in time to be sick. As he’s gagging over the toilet bowl, MJ picks up his phone where he had dropped it. The article headline was in bold and large, red print, unmissable – and MJ finally understood where the heart break had come from.

_Astro’s Rocky & his boyfriend Sanha – broken up? Rocky spotted at dinner with new handsome blonde. _

Sanha never did hear from Rocky about the articles, never heard back from him on New Year’s, either.

Sometimes, on bad nights, Sanha likes to think what life would be like had he never met Rocky. And sometimes, on _really_ bad nights, he wishes he hadn’t.

Because it’s on these _bad nights_ that Sanha feels the loneliest.

Lonely because Rocky is still away on his first world tour; is still too busy to answers his calls; is still too far out of Sanha’s reach. These nights find Sanha clutching his phone so tightly in his hand that the skin turns a violent shade of red, and his legs are tucked up under his chin from his position on the couch.

There comes a certain point during the night where the loneliness morphs into anger, and when that happens, Sanha realises he can’t face the bedroom any longer. He leaves the room filled with memories – the clothes Rocky had left behind, the pink ring dish Sanha had crafted for Rocky one birthday, the half-empty bottle of his cologne he’d opted against taking, packing the travel size instead. _He leaves it all in there_ , dares only to open it to get his own clothes each morning, and opts for the couch instead.

He can’t even bring himself to use the guest bedroom. After all, Rocky had picked the linens.

Somewhere in the elusive outskirts of his unconsciousness, Sanha recalls thinking Rocky should have taken the larger bottle of cologne with him.

 

A week before his birthday, and Sanha finds himself spending more time than ever at MJ’s apartment.

After graduating, after being together for years, it had made sense for Sanha and Rocky to move in together. Sanha had wanted to continue renting a place, wanted to stay close to both MJ and the hospital, but Rocky had insisted upon buying. Sanha had, at first, outright refused. Refused to be part of a relationship where he was entirely dependent on the other, unable to contribute anything financial to the purchase. Rocky had pushed for it, though, and Sanha never was good at denying Rocky of what he wanted. He relented, and soon, they had purchased a two-bedroom apartment with river rivers and a large balcony, with a garden terrace as well, and a huge kitchen. Sanha had claimed over and over that it was too big, but then Rocky had blushed and stumbled over his words, but Sanha caught the main things. He caught the words _family_ and _kids_ and _marriage_ all jumbled together, and who was Sanha to deny his boyfriend of that?

Their purchase went through, and they had moved into the place in the month that followed.

Now, though, Sanha hadn’t been back in days. The place had started to lose its smell of Rocky – it just smelt like Sanha now, like _single_ Sanha, like a Sanha that had never been in Rocky’s life. The thing that told him of otherwise was the few remains of Rocky’s belongings, the photos of them together on the wall. But even then, all those things were starting to collect dust; much like all their untouched memories were.

 

He has the locks changed on their apartment, even though Rocky owns it more than he ever will, because it makes him feel powerful where power shouldn't have to be felt.

 

On the night of his birthday, MJ takes him to dinner. They get outrageously drunk, because Sanha is twenty-five now, because drinking is the best way to celebrate, and because he hadn’t heard a single thing from Rocky for two months. Rocky hadn’t texted, nor had he called. Sanha knew he didn’t have a concert tonight, either, knew his schedule even if Rocky didn’t know his. Rocky had chosen to not call, not to wish Sanha Happy Birthday. It was either that, or he had forgotten. Sanha doesn’t know what one hurts more.

 

That same night, or perhaps the next morning, a guy with too-broad shoulders kisses him on the dancefloor. Sanha isn’t sure where MJ has disappeared too, frankly doesn’t care, because he’s clutching at the man who’s tongues down his throat like he’s his lifeline. He’s so different to what Rocky is – stature, mainly. This man – he doesn’t even know his name – is wider and taller, and he’s wearing a yellow polo shirt and grey slacks, and the contrast to Rocky is so severe that Sanha feels dizzy.

When the man’s hands grasp at his backside, Sanha shoves him off. He’s panting, and the man looks dazed and confused, and then disgruntled when he sees the horrified expression on Sanha’s face. He grunts, then slinks away and back into the thumping crowd of the club, leaving Sanha motionless and undignified under the purple glow.

He staggers over to the bar, where he had last seen MJ, and yanks his phone out of his pocket to get a hold of him. He calls three times, but MJ doesn’t answer, and he goes to text him, to tell him he’s dragging himself home, but before he knows it, he’s dialling Rocky’s number on instinct. The drunken part of his mind remains hopeful, but his logic was always stronger. He knew Rocky wouldn’t pick up. He knew it, deep down, underneath all that hope.

When Rocky’s voice told him to leave a message, he decides against it. Normally, he would, satisfied with the idea that maybe Rocky would hear it after a concert and it would make him smile. Now, though, it didn’t seem right.

It was Sanha’s birthday and Rocky had forgotten, and Sanha had just made out with a man he didn’t know in a dark, crowded club, because maybe he missed Rocky, or maybe it was because whatever he had with Rocky was no longer _real_. Because what kind of person would call someone their boyfriend, if they didn’t even wish them happy birthday?

 

Sanha goes out and buys a new pink sweater. It’s made of cashmere, just like the one Rocky bought him, but the colours wrong and the feelings wrong and it’s just _wrong._

 

The last time Sanha had heard Rocky’s voice – really heard it, not just on the radio, or in an interview – was over two months ago. Four months in to what would be a six-month world tour, and Rocky had already taken to ignoring his texts and phone calls. When they had first separated that morning at the airport, they swore to never lose touch – they had been together six whole years now, and the thought of them ever drifting apart was terribly unlikely – and through the mess of tears and running makeup and wet kisses, there was another promise, a more important one. A promise that Rocky would come back home again.

The texts and phone calls were difficult, because time zones put them in an awkward position. When Rocky wasn’t performing or sleeping, Sanha was working a shift at the hospital. Texts were brief and awkwardly timed, only being able to spare a few minutes between patients, or between Rocky’s fan-meets.

 _It’s going to be tough_ , Sanha thinks he remembers Rocky telling him a few nights before his flight.

 _We’re going to be okay,_ he had said back to him. He’s not quite sure he believes it now.

As Sanha prepares for another sleepless night of the couch, he can’t help but think Rocky had intended to break that original promise the moment he stepped foot on the plane.

 

Sanha wanted to know why it was _him_ that was left feeling disgusted with himself, and not Rocky, who seemed to be having an unbelievable time on tour. He was in Australia now, five months into their tour, and where he would have thought he’d be excited for Rocky’s return home a month later – he isn’t quite sure he is.

 

Sanha never used to accept split shifts. Now, be begged for them. Anything to get him out from what he used to call home.

 

He gets a call from Rocky at four o’clock in the morning two weeks out from his return. Sanha wants to decline the call, but at the same time, Rocky hasn’t called him since Christmas, and he can’t deny that he craves the attention and the sound of his voice.

When the line clicks through, Sanha stays silent.

“S-Sanha?”

His voice sounded foreign to him now, like someone he didn’t know. It was vaguely familiar, but it seemed tired, strained, croakier than normal. Sanha assumes that comes down to the increasing number of shows he’s doing, the late nights, the alcohol, the drugs he promises Sanha’s not doing. Sanha can’t trust him though, not anymore, not after everything – or rather, nothing. Because that’s what Rocky had done: _nothing_. And that was the problem.

“What?” His voice is harsh and bitter and nothing like Rocky would recognise him as. _Good_ , he thinks, _let him suffer just as much as I have._

“How are you?”

Sanha snorts down the line, shaking his head as he sits up in his bed. He’s crying now, though he does so silently. He won’t let Rocky have the pleasure of knowing he still has that kind of effect on him. “What do you want, Rocky? It’s four o’clock in the morning.”

There’s a silence over the line, and Rocky doesn’t respond. Sanha gulps, then rubs his temples. “I kissed someone,” he says, voice loud and clear and far too honest for Rocky to ever think him lying.

The silence extends further and stretches into the little hours for a few minutes more before Rocky speaks. It’s croaky and thick and Sanha recognises it as his crying voice. In any other situation, Sanha would be trying his best to comfort – but right now, this man, the man who he lived with every fibre of his being, was also the one to take those fibres and slice them into irreparable shreds.

“Watch the music awards, yeah?”

Sanha doesn’t say anything, just clenches the phone between his fingers tighter.  
“Please Sanha…promise me you’ll watch it?”

He pushes himself out of bed, and out onto their balcony. “Why should I promise you anything Rocky? You broke every single one you swore to keep!”

Rocky sniffs, but denies nothing. “This is the last thing I’ll ever ask from you, Sanha.”

He hangs up before Sanha can.

 

Now, more than ever, Sanha wishes he knew where his sweater was.

 

Sanha’s working the day of the music awards. Rocky’s back in the States, and Sanha knows that his band is performing. It’s a huge honour, something that he and Sanha had screamed and cried about for hours when they had found out. MJ pushes him towards the lunch room when the time comes for them to perform. The time zones are out, and it’s an awkward time, and Sanha didn’t want to watch it, but the desperation in Rocky’s voice had him shivering with anticipation. The man he loved, who had broken his heart, was also the man who _owned_ his heart – and no matter how much he tried to deny him, tried not to pull himself away from work to watch it, he knew there was no chance of it actually happening. Sanha was well and truly Rocky’s, no matter what the universe spat at him.

Sanha expected them to play their most popular release from their newest album, but as the cameras rolled to the mini-stage, the setup was not what he had expected.

There was a piano in the middle, and while Sanha knew Rocky could play the basics, he’d never known him to play it during their relationship. His bandmates were surrounding the shiny, black instrument, solemn and dark in their usual black attire. And then, when the lights changed, white instead of dim, Sanha’s breath caught in his throat, his palms perspired, his bones rattled.

Rocky played the piano in a way that made Sanha realise he had undoubtedly been practicing, and the notes were unfamiliar and thick-sounding, like most new songs are, and it takes another few seconds for Sanha to realise it’s a new song. At the bottom of the screen, the lyrics are scrolling along with the title – and the _name_ of it, the words that are attached to it, it’s enough for Sanha to feel unsteady on his feet, enough for him to reach out for the edge of the table. He’s clenching at the wooden corners, and his hands are protesting at the pain from it, but it does not compare to the pain in his chest.

The words he sings are soften than all the others he’s ever sung, but their meaning _stabs_ deeper. They ache more, last longer, and when the lights change hue again, his heart is torn so violently from his chest that he isn’t quite sure where life starts and ends anymore.

Because there, behind a piano as black as Sanha’s soul, sits Rocky, the love of his life, playing a song for him. Playing a song _about_ him.

And he’s wearing the pink sweater.

 

Sanha had to leave work, had to drag himself behind the wheel of his car, had to drag himself through his apartment with sluggish feet, weighed down by the monstrosities clutching at his skull. He drops his bag by the door, and kicks off his shoes. He turns to lock the door, then hesitates. Instead, he leaves it open, hangs the keys on one of the two hooks in the entranceway, and heads to the bedroom.

For the first time in five months, Sanha sleeps in an actual bed.

 

When he wakes up the next morning, Rocky is in the bed beside him; his suitcase is open and empty on top of the dressing table, his toothbrush back in the holder, pink sweater on the back of the chair. 

_Rocky was home._

 

Sanha knows that tomorrow will be just as painful as yesterday, as today was, but now that Rocky was _here_ , everything would start to heal -  _everything._ From missing their anniversary to forgetting Sanha's birthday, to the kiss Sanha shared with a stranger in a moment of heart broken passion, to the miscommunication and the six full months of pain. Everything would be sorted. But first.  _But first._

Sanha watched him sleep, watched the smooth expanse of his chest, the thin white sheet sitting low around his hips. Watched the way his eyes danced around a dream, the way his hand sits lazily around the back of Sanha’s neck. Sanha watches the patch of skin over Rocky’s heart, which had once been bare, rise and fall, and he rests his head against it, now; listens to the steady heart beat found there. Sanha’s eyes close as he fingers over the new tattoo there, healed already, so perhaps months old, but new enough to him that the smile on his lips was unavoidable.

It’s only two words, written in Rocky’s fine calligraphy. And it makes sense to Sanha now, the words printed there. They’re the same words that he named their new single, the same words that made Sanha keep the door unlocked. _It makes sense_ that Rocky would tattoo them _here_ , over his heart, because Sanha owned his heart anyway; his heart beat for him, a song all on its own. _It makes sense. It makes sense. It makes sense._

Because it’s _his_. His heart, the gentle but immaculate tune there, the steady beat, the comforting sign of life – It’s _his._

It’s _Sanha’s Song._

 

 

"that little kiss you stole,

it held my heart and soul. 

and like a ghost in the silence i disappear.

don't try to fight the storm,

you'll tumble overboard.

tides will bring me back to you."

bring me the horizon, '[deathbeds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ge7P0VEvhak).' 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [tumblr](http://softsocky.tumblr.com/)


End file.
